


Greater Sins Did Walk the Earth

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Series: Sladick Fics [3]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: BAMF Dick Grayson, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Fights, Guilt, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Leadership, M/M, Motorcycles, Pining, Protective Slade Wilson, References to Supernatural (TV), Self-Flagellation, Soft Boys, Stitches, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but the manly kind, this now has a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 19:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18168890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: Dick Grayson carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and finds ways to punish himself when he perceives himself as having failed. His way to do that? Picking fights and not trying to win them.Slade Wilson is all too aware of this unhealthy coping mechanism, and is disinclined to indulge the young vigilante. It leads to far more than he expected, though.





	Greater Sins Did Walk the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really popping these out, aren't I? One a day so far! Haha there is absolutely zero way I'm gonna keep to that schedule. But I do indeed have many, _many_ more ideas!

Slade Wilson had known Dick Grayson since the kid was twelve years old.

He'd been impressive, even back then. Still ways to go, but that skinny little boy had had more skill than a majority of the grown ass mercenaries Slade came into contact with. It was to be expected, he supposed; Dick was being trained by the bat, after all, and they all knew he could most certainly hold his own.

Grayson was fifteen the first time he tried to confront Deathstroke on his own, without his mentor at his side. Slade had knocked him flat on his ass, of course, but the kid had lasted longer than many would have expected a small sidekick to.

Slade wasn't surprised, though. Robin proved himself every single day, getting better and better with every passing moment. He learned on his feet, and learned fast. He never got caught off guard by the same thing twice, and he never took his guard down, not even when it was just him and his little hero friends.

Slade respected that. In fact, for a while, he wanted nothing more than to poach the little bird for himself, show the kid how much grander life could be without all the constraints Batman was forcing onto him.

Dick was sixteen when Slade suggested changing sides. The young vigilante had laughed in his face and then followed it up with a solid punch.

It was only five months later that Slade learned who the kid was, and by common sense who  _Batman_ was.

He never told a soul. Dick had asked him once, a couple years back, why he kept that valuable piece of information to himself. Slade hadn't had an answer for him then, and he still didn't. He wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure why he put a bullet in the brain of a thug who took off Dick's mask the month before, either, but he did it all the same.

Going on eleven years of contact with the young vigilante, Slade knew him pretty well. Knew his habits, his favorite foods, the rooftops he preferred when he was upset and the ones he loved simply for the view, how he handled stress, and how well he handled failure.

Which was to say, not very well at all.

Slade sighed from where he stood on the catwalk, watching the fight on the factory floor below. Six against one. Slade had seen Nightwing beat those odds with _literally_ two hands tied behind his back before. And yet somehow, this time, the group of two-bit mercs were getting in a fair amount of hits on the vigilante themselves.

This was Dick's sixth fight of the night, so an argument could be made for exhaustion or injury. But again, Slade had seen the kid go longer and harder and still keep himself in top form. Which meant this was one of  _those_ nights, the ones where Dick felt the weight of the world on his shoulders and instead of talking about it like an emotionally stable person, he went out and pushed himself too hard and let himself take beatings he could've avoided with just a smidge of effort.

Slade hated these nights. This kind of thing was when a parent was supposed to step in, or a sibling, or a friend, or a teammate. They were supposed to notice these things, and help. Help Dick feel like he wasn't drowning, like he didn't need to punish himself over every little fucking thing, like the problems of the universe weren't all his fault.

But those shitheads were fucking nowhere to be found.

Instead, Slade was there. Slade had to watch this bright, shining kid take punch after punch and keep going back for more, when they  _both knew_ he had the ability to avoid the hits.

The first time he'd witnessed something like this was five years ago, when Dick was eighteen. He was newly named Nightwing, not even six months into the job, and leading a mission with a couple other young heroes. It went perfectly, really. Mission accomplished. But one of the other kids got hurt. Nothing serious, barely bedridden for more than a few days.

But that night Nightwing went out and picked a fight with everyone he came across. Slade was one of those people.

Dick had kept coming at him, not using his escrima sticks, not keeping his head as well as Slade  _knew_ he could, not defending himself as strongly as the mercenary had seen the vigilante do a thousand times before.

He'd been there for punishment, that was clear as day. The second Slade realized that, he'd refused to engage. He'd refused to engage every time since.

That hadn't stopped Dick, though. The kid didn't have to work hard to find someone to fight in his shit city, after all. Gotham was crawling with illegal activity, and they were all too happy to bloody up a young vigilante who didn't know when to stop.

The last guy went down, and Nightwing dropped to his knees, panting heavily. There was a wound on his side that he'd gotten a couple hours ago in Fight #3, and it was bleeding sluggishly now, agitated by the constant pulling. He was covered in small wounds really, cuts here and there in his suit, and Slade was sure his body was going to be a mess of bruises. But that one on his side

 _F_ _uck,_ would the kid just stay down and go get some medical attention?

But no, of course not. Dick was already pushing himself to his feet, grunting with the effort and swaying slightly. He rolled his neck, winced, prodded at the wound on his side, winced again, and then took a couple deep breaths, still swaying. The next person to fight him was going to have to do no more than blow on him and Nightwing would be down for good.

Slade lowered himself into a crouch and then dropped to the ground, his boots making no more than a quiet  _thump_ against the cement floor. Nightwing didn't even twitch at the noise, rubbing a hand over his face. Slade crept closer and closer and still the kid didn't respond to his presence at all.

The mercenary rose his gun, pressing the muzzle against the back of Dick's head. Dick went still, and Slade heard his breath catch in his throat.

"Bang. Dead," Deathstroke said firmly. At his voice, Dick slumped in what appeared to be relief. Now that he was so close, Slade could see the slight shaking running through the vigilante's body.

"Cut it out," Dick muttered, turning around to face the mercenary. The movement made the kid sway a bit more heavily, and Slade resisted the urge to reach out and steady him. "That's not funny."

Slade lowered his arm, tucking his pistol back into its holster. "Sloppy."

Dick narrowed his eyes. Normally Dick was pretty good at conveying anger through a look like that, but right now he could barely muster more than tired indignation. "One misstep, give me a break, Slade."

Deathstroke rolled his eye beneath his mask. "One? Kid, I've been following you all night; almost getting shot by me is  _not_ your first  _misstep."_

"You weren't going to shoot me," Nightwing said confidently.

And see,  _that_ was a problem. Because he was right; there was no universe in which Slade was ever going to put a loaded gun to Dick's head and actually pull the trigger. Slade Wilson was one of the best (if not  _the_ best) mercenaries in the world, and the fact that he wouldn't dispatch a problematic vigilante if he had to seriously made his life harder.

That, however, was an issue for another time.

"That's not the point, kid," Slade said tiredly. "You didn't know it was me. Hell, you didn't even know someone was  _following_ you." He examined Dick for a moment. "So what are you punishing yourself for this time?"

Nightwing's brow furrowed, and he shook his head. Even that small action made him look dizzy. "I'm not-"

"Yea, you are," Slade interrupted. "It's kind of what you do, all this pointless shit when something goes wrong."

"I don't think the people I've saved tonight would call it  _pointless,"_ Dick said coldly.

Slade smirked at him. "And what about tomorrow, then? And the night after? Look at yourself, kid; I would barely have to put a hand on you to take you out of commission. With the state you've put yourself in you'll be no good to anyone for a few days."

"Slade-"

"Let me take care of your injuries," Deathstroke interrupted, because he was a fucking  _moron_ who could never pull himself away. "Unless you feel like getting back out there to continue your self-flagellation?"

Dick scowled at him, but it was halfhearted at best, and after a couple moments he hung his head, nodding. "Yea," he agreed quietly. "Iyea, alright. Thank you."

Slade didn't allow himself to acknowledge the slight relief he felt, and nodded sharply in return. "Good. Follow me."

Nightwing did as he was told, following Slade out of the warehouse without complaint. He stumbled, righted himself, then stumbled again, and this time Slade didn't resist the urge to help. He wrapped an arm around Dick's back, under his arms, and forcibly took a majority of the vigilante's weight.

Dick grimaced at the motion and his eyes darted briefly to Slade's face before away. Slade kept his gaze forward and practically carried the hero to his waiting motorcycle.

"I can-" Dick began, when he saw that Slade was going to put him in front of himself on the bike.

"No, you can't," Slade immediately disagreed. "I'd tell you to hang onto me and you'd fall off at the first turn. Sit down and shut up, Grayson."

Nightwing muttered something under his breath that Slade chose to ignore, and then lowered himself onto the front of the motorcycle seat. Slade sat down behind him, made sure the kid was secure and not in danger of slipping off the side, then started the bike.

The ride to Slade's safehouse was about ten minutes, and he most certainly did not pay attention to the way Dick settled against his chest with a sigh, relaxing into his body, his head tilting back on Slade's shoulder, his eyes drifting shut. He definitely didn't take an extra loop around the block simply because Dick finally looked so fucking peaceful and the kid didn't get enough rest, and feeling him in his arms was pretty damn nice.

"Alright, come on," Slade muttered, pulling the motorcycle to a slow stop behind the apartment building. Dick's eyes blinked open, briefly disorientated, beautiful blue, and then he pushed himself to his feet with a grimace, allowing Slade to help him to the elevator and up to one of the mercenary's many,  _many_ safehouses.

Dick didn't hesitate to remove his clothes once the door was shut behind them, wincing as the material scrapped over his wounds. He stumbled and began to fall as he pulled his feet out of the costume and Slade was at his side in an instant. His hands didn't stray, his touch didn't linger; as soon as Dick found his balance, Slade let go.

"Take a shower," the mercenary called out as he moved into the kitchen to grab the first aid kit, and then to the bedroom to change into civilian clothes. "Wash all the shit off of you; then I'll take care of that nasty cut."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the younger man nod absently and then make his way into the bathroom. Before shutting the door Slade saw him sit down to remove his underwear, for which Slade was relieved; that was not a rescue he wanted to make.

Fifteen minutes later, Dick made his way back out, a towel wrapped securely around his hips. He followed Slade to the living room and laid down on the couch when prompted, blinking blearily up at the mercenary, body relaxed, limbs splayed, towel knot straining.

And this...shit, this was seriously  _unfair._ That gorgeous boy staring up at him, so goddamn open, so goddamn _trusting_ this was going to be the death of him.

Slade was not a man who denied himself things he wanted. If he wanted a drink, he poured one. Wanted a fuck, he went to a bar. Wanted to release some tension, he took a challenging job. He saw no point in living his life any other way.

But, to no fucking surprise, Dick Grayson was making him break his habits. Because  _oh,_ how Slade was denying himself now.

He perched on the edge of the couch by Dick's hip, leaning in to get a better look at the gash on his side. It was pretty neat, really, a solid cut. Easy to stitch up. He got to work, cleaning the wound then giving a small, local anesthetic before beginning to stitch it up.

Dick was breathing deeply by the time he was done, his eyes closed, and if not for the faint twitching of his hands, Slade would've said the kid had fallen asleep. Fuck knew he needed it.

"I'm gonna check out the rest of these," Slade said, gesturing to the smaller cuts even though Dick's eyes were still closed. The vigilante hummed lowly, nodding to give his consent, and so Slade got to work without hesitation.

Nothing else was deep enough to need stitches, so he just cleaned them up and then prodded at some of the bruises, ignoring Dick's hisses of discomfort as he searched for any fractures or breaks.

"I think you've got a cracked rib or two," he told the kid, pulling his hands away. "I'm assuming you know how to properly take care of them."

Dick opened his blue eyes and nodded, a smile pulling his lips upward. "I've been a vigilante for thirteen years, Slade; I've had a cracked rib before."

"With the way you threw yourself about tonight, I'm not surprised," Slade replied in a blasé tone, getting up to throw away the used materials.

Dick's smile faded, and he didn't say anything for a few minutes.

Then, "I sent someone in undercover. They were willing to do it, but it was my call. And they got discovered, barely got out with their life. I made a stupid decision and now she's..." His voice trailed off and he exhaled softly, staring up at the ceiling.

Slade walked back over to the couch, sitting on the armrest by Dick's head. He looked down, waiting until the hero met his gaze before speaking. "When you made that call, was it the best one with the information you currently had access to?"

Dick hesitated, then said, "Well, I suppose, but-"

"Did you weigh the pros and cons thoughtfully before making the decision?"

"Iof  _course!_ I wouldn't have sent her in there without thinking it through-"

"You're the leader of a team, Grayson," Slade said quietly. "That makes you responsible for them, and for decisions like that. It's a heavy burden, but you're a  _good_ leader, and your team knows you would  _never_ purposefully put them at risk. They trust you, Dick, you just have to trust yourself." He paused for a moment. "Is the girl gonna be ok?"

Dick nodded, wetting his lips briefly. He held Slade's gaze solidly. "Yea, she'sshe'll be fine."

Slade nodded back, satisfied. "You can't keep looking at everything wrong in the world and making it your fault, kid. Sometimes shit happens. All you can do is move forward from there."

Dick's relaxed, serious expression held for a few more moment before a lopsided smile grew on his face. "When did you get so wise, Obi-Wan?"

Slade snorted, rolling his eye, and stood up. "It's late, we should get some sleep. You can take the bed; I don't trust that you won't roll right off the couch in the middle of the night and tear those stitchesI'd make you redo them yourself."

The younger man laughed softly and pushed himself into a seated position, tilting his head back to look Slade in the eye. His blue eyes shined. "Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?" he asked, a gentle, teasing smile hinted at the corners of his lips.

The mercenary frowned at him, confused, and then rolled his eye again. "You need to stop watching shit television." He headed towards the bedroom to grab an extra blanket.

"It's not shit!" Dick protested indignantly. "Supernatural is a fun, underrated TV show that I hope never dies."

Slade threw the blanket at Dick's head, smirking at the squawk he got for his troubles, and crossed his arms. "Get up, kid; it's time for bed. I need my beauty sleep, even if you refuse to get your own."

Dick did as instructed, muttering under his breath, and headed for the bedroom. As he passed Slade he stopped, looking up at him. Dick was tall, probably not used to looking up at people, but Slade always had beenand always would besomeone he had to tilt his chin to look in the eye. That had never seemed to intimidate the kid, though. He almost seemed to _relax_ under his heavy, high gaze.

"What?" Slade prompted gruffly, frowning.

"You-" Dick began, then stopped himself. He licked his lips, his eyes flitting away briefly in an almost nervous gesture before returning to Slade's own. "You used to..." He trailed off, then shook his head and looked away. "Nevermind," he said quietly, and began moving for the bedroom again. His cheeks were slightly pink.

"No, hey, what?" Slade asked, stopping Dick by taking ahold of his arm. "What's on your fucking mind, kid? Spit it out."

Dick took a breath and then said something, too low and too quiet for even Slade's enhanced hearing to pick it up.

Slade shook the vigilante a little, feeling irritation spark. "Didn't your father teach you to enunciate? What is it, Dick?"

"You used to call me little bird," Dick got out. His pink cheeks were now bright red, and he wouldn't look Slade in the eye. "You stopped doing that a few years ago, now it's just _kid,_ which I do like, but I miss..." He cleared his throat awkwardly and pulled away; Slade let him. "Sorry, it's nothing, forget I said anything."

Slade didn't say anything, just watched the young vigilante walk quickly away and into the bedroom, the door shutting behind him. Slade knew he was staring, but it was hard to catch him off guard, and Dick had managed to do so.

He'd stopped calling the kid _little bird_ because Dick had hit twenty, an age where an argument could've been made that it would be ok to sleep with, and  _little bird_ felt like far too intimate of an endearment. Slade wasn't a man who denied himself things, but he'd always refused to let himself get wrapped up in the idea of Dick Grayson, and so  _little bird_ had been a casualty of his own need to control his emotions.

Just when the mercenary was getting himself to move again, sighing and turning towards the couch, the bedroom door flew back open and Dick strode out, a determined set to his jaw.

Slade sighed again, internally. A determined Nightwing was a rarely a good thing.

"You could have me, you know," Dick said, his chin raised high. The confidence in his voice was cut down by the raging blush in his cheeks and on the tips of his ears, and the fact that he couldn't stand completely straight without tugging uncomfortably on his stitches.

"I'm sorry  _what?"_ Slade's tone was purely incredulous, and if he were a lesser man he was sure he would be gaping. But he was Slade Wilson, Deathstroke the Terminator, and his jaw wasn't going to drop simply because a twenty-three-year-old hero was offering himself on a silver platter.

If it were possible, Dick's cheeks got even brighter. He was staring at Slade's nose, too, to give the impression of meeting his gaze. He was embarrassed, unsure, insecureSlade didn't know how to remedy it.

"I'm-" Dick began, then cleared his throat and shifted slightly, barely containing the wince that followed as he accidently put weight where he shouldn't have. Sloppy, distracted.

Then, Dick's hand went to the towel's knot, and he let it fall.

"Jesus _Christ,"_ Slade breathed, and immediately averted his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. "You areyou are a _child,_ we're not going to-"

"I'm not a  _child,"_ the vigilante said, his voice tight with indignation. "I'm twenty-three!"

"Batman is going to kill me," Slade told the ceiling. He felt a headache coming on.

"Batman doesn't kill," Dick pointed out.

"Oh, he'll make an exception," Slade muttered. "If some old man made advances on Rose-"

"Rose is a teenager!" Dick protested, "Not even a legal adult! That's  _different._ Besides, _you're_ not the one making advances. And you're not  _old-"_

"I'm ninety-two, Grayson. I am literally four times your age."

"Goddammit Slade would you just  _look at me?"_

Hell. Slade wasn't a good enough man to resist that demand. He lowered his eyes, looking over Dick's messy black hair, his bright blue eyes, his strong jaw line, his elegant neck, his firm pecks and abs, the scattering of his various scars, the sharp V of his hips and

He stopped there.

"Wayne is going to actually murder me," Slade said, raising his eyes back to Dick's face. "And everyone is going to help him. I will have the entire batfamily chasing me down."

"You already have them chasing you down," the younger man pointed out, sounding amused. "It's kind of what they  _do."_

"Hell hath no fury like a father whose kid was taken advantage of," Slade muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dick laughed, causing Slade to look at him in irritation. Dick's smile slowly faded. "C'mon Slade," he said, and his tone was light and jokey, but it fell flat, "am I really that horrible?"

"Oh, kid," Slade murmured. "Oh, hell. No, youhell.

"Look, youyou're injured, and I took care of you. I've beenwell, I've been very nice to you, and I guess it can seem like I've looked out for you all these years, and I comforted you when you were feeling very unsure of yourself, and you're kind of touch-starved and lacking in affection, so it's understandable that you-"

"Oh, fuck off with that bullshit," Dick scoffed. "That's notthat's not what this is! Look, do you want me or not?"

Something occurred to Slade. "Is this just another way to punish yourself?" he asked slowly. "Sex with someone who could snap you in two with his finger and not blink twice?"

Dick shuddered, and Slade felt triumphant for a moment, thinking that the kid had  _finally_ clued into the fact that he should be afraid, butno. That wasn't fear, that was...

 _"Fuck,_ kid," Slade breathed. "Oh, I'm going to hell. I am absolutely going to hell. And Batman is going to be the one to send me there."

Then he strode forward, yanked Dick against his chest, and kissed him like a drowning man sucking in his first gulp of air.

Dick gasped into his mouth and his hands went up to grip his forearms, pulling the mercenary closer, not pushing him away.

Eventually, after far too long and certainly not long enough, Slade broke the kiss. He didn't pull away, their rapid breaths mixing together, but he also didn't indulge when Dick inched forward, as if to keep going.

"You need to be absolutely, 100% sure, little bird," Slade murmured, and drank in the delightful shudder that traveled up Dick's spine at the term. Oh yes, he was _definitely_ using that again. "Because this isyou need to be 100% sure."

"Take me to bed, Deathstroke," Dick ordered. His tone was teasing, a smile curling his lips, but the heat in his eyes was real and so was that beautiful erection pressing against Slade's clothed groin.

Slade wasn't a big fan of orders. But that one? Oh, that one he'd follow to the ends of the Earth and then some.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed!
> 
> UPDATE: Now with a sequel! "Ease My Mind" https://archiveofourown.org/works/18342344#main


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